You Could Stay
by Perilous Cowboy
Summary: He's every oppression ever placed on her. And she's every freedom he couldn't afford. (Illya whump)


"You could stay."

The words freeze him where he is. Suitcase already in the trunk of the taxi, he turns to look at her. Gaby. Standing near the door of the hotel with a set to her jaw that was trying to hide whatever emotions were illustrated in her eyes. Illya hadn't expected her to come after him. He'd said his goodbyes in the hotel room. Shook Cowboy's hand, let Gaby kiss him on the cheek and he'd wished them both the best of luck with UNCLE and everything they had ahead of them.

The KGB's leash had reached it's breaking point.

He didn't know what he wanted. There was pride in his upbringing, pride in his country – he was Russian and he always would be, through and through. He had to believe in what that stood for, that strength and pride that kept men standing under whatever hail of scrutiny or torture befell them.

So when the KGB, when Russia, told him it was time to come home, Illya was ready to comply. The gig was up. The time he'd spent under Waverly's command was over and it had been a good run, but there was no point in keeping him under that codename anymore. It's value had run its course and returned nothing. Nuclear warheads off the market, scientists rescued – everything that could have been done while flying the KGB banner instead. It was time to sever ties.

To come home.

Only Gaby was standing at the door of the hotel. They'd already said goodbye and Illya had nearly broken his fist against the wall of the elevator on his way down. He didn't know what he wanted. Because there was home and then there was _home._ And he didn't think he'd felt the two add up in years.

"No," he says, a quiet rumble to his answer. There's more emotion in that one word than he's meant to ever show to her. That he's ever meant to let slip in front of her.

Gaby bounces her knee, her hand patting her thigh as she thinks about that. Her head tipped to the side, regarding him and he wonders if she doesn't find him wanting. If she looks at him and all she sees are countless "no's." Countless emotions swept under the rug of duty and focus. If he could be a better man, had they only met at a different time.

"No because you can't, or because you don't want to?"

The question grabs painfully at his memories. _I need a partner._ She wants to dance. She's mad at him that night because he's everything she hates about the Iron Curtain. He's every oppression ever placed on her. And she's every freedom he couldn't afford.

Both, should be his answer. It's what he'd given to her that first night. He can't, he doesn't want to. To dancing, it was to keep her guessing. Because Illya was tough and he was secretive and dancing was nothing that correlated to either of those things.

The answer doesn't come as easily this time. He doesn't know what he wants. There's country and family and origins and everything he's always wanted. Then there's Gaby and Solo, Waverly and UNCLE and everything he never knew he did.

Maybe his silence is answer enough. Gaby's stepping forward and her jaw is set so tightly he thinks she's looks ready for a fight. She probably is. But the word slips out so pleadingly, Illya has to fight to stay where he is.

"Stay." Her head bobs to the side, looking down the street before their eyes meet again. "Just don't go."

Illya's the first to look away. It's to look down, submission, but not to the woman in front of him. To the masters at his back. When he looks up again, his answer is already written on his face. "Be safe, Gaby."

He climbs into the taxi and closes the door, leaving that world behind him.

—

He's 11 days into captivity.

His return to Russia, to the KGB hadn't gone how he'd planned. At most, he figured Siberia awaited him. A labor camp where he would work tirelessly, but still be able to prove his worth. As a Russian. As a man. As an unyielding loyalist to the KGB because he'd come home.

Turns out, they had a different plan for Illya. They wanted information and leverage over UNCLE. A multi-nation organization, no matter what side of good and humanity they claimed to be on, would always be deemed a threat. Against Russia, against the world. He should have seen it coming. He should have known.

He didn't. And 11 days later, he was tied to a chair, leaning to the side to spit blood onto the floor. One eye was purple, swollen shut. The other was puffy, yellowed skin with spots of dark purple where it had recently healed. His nose was broken, molars missing from the back of his jaw. They'd whipped him, they'd beaten him, they'd burned him, they'd even drowned him and all of the marks, all of the evidence was littered on his skin beneath the shirt they'd given him.

Yet he was still here. Still alive, still conscious, still able to tell them the same thing he'd told them from the beginning. "No." A word he seemed to have an endless supply of. Every time they asked, every detail they wanted about UNCLE, about it's operatives, he would give it back to them. "No."

 _No._

It wasn't like Illya had much to tell them anyway. How much more could he possibly know that they didn't already? The KGB had eyes everywhere and he supposed he should have seen this coming, because he'd stopped being one of them a long time ago.

They'd left him alone in the dark. A fresh beating leaving his skin feverish and blood dripping from his mouth. Split, dry cracked lips. Complete darkness and the distant sound of dripping water. The sound of wheezing in his chest. Of blood on the floor. Of teeth chattering and breath catching and heart beating.

Of resolve splintering.

Eleven days. Solo comes for him after 11 days.

They're quiet. British Naval Intelligence officers, almost the complete lot of them. Silent as they move, as they take down guards outside the building. Illya couldn't even say where he was exactly. All this time in this place and he could't even say if he was still in Russia.

But the door opens and lights get flashed his way. He has to squint beneath the glare and it hurts because half of his face is swollen and beaten. "Located the target," a strange voice says. "Med team requested."

A moment later, the bindings around his wrists are being loosened. The movement of those around him blurs, words and noises too overwhelming because they'd left him alone in the dark for too long. He realizes after a moment, that someone's talking to him. Crouched at his side as he works on the bindings that have cut into the flesh of his wrist. He can barely feel it. It's just pain now. It's nothing.

"…a little while. You've no idea the lengths we had to go through to find you." The bindings come loose and Illya focuses on the face of the man. He stands. Solo. Napoleon. A wave of relief floods through him. The love he feels for this man, like his own blood, his own brother. Illya had not had someone in his life that he'd depended on so freely before. That relief upon seeing him now nearly threatens to send him into oblivion and it's only the hand on the side of his face, giving him a slight shake that stirs him out of it.

"You know, the last time we found ourselves in a situation like this, I seem to remember saying that I was happy to see you," Solo drones, like he does. Talking for the sake of something to hold onto. Illya grasps at it best he can. "I thought surely you would return the sentiment."

Illya has to swallow multiple times before he finds his voice, worn ragged by the solid answer he'd kept giving. By the blood that slides back down his throat. "You doing okay, Cowboy?" he rasps his familiar line.

Solo has a smile that can light up the room. It shines now and Illya can only partly return beneath the bruises.

"Funny you should ask," Solo says and moves to begin pulling Illya from the chair. His body is limp, what little strength he had left in him put towards just keeping his head up and his eyes open. "Let me tell you about _my_ night…"

He drones again and Illya clings to it like a lifeline. The room changes to a hall. Then to a factory floor and outside there are familiar vans. CIA. They'd pooled resources, he sees. At some point, he tunes back into what Solo says, but only after the man reaches up to gives his cheek a tap, careful of the wounds. "You with me still, Peril?" When he gets no immediate answer, Solo's voice takes on a serious tone. "Illya."

A garbled, "Ya," is what he manages out and Solo's grip tightens.

He doesn't remember how they wound up leaving the factory.

—

It's a hospital in Warsaw and it's only temporary. He opens his eyes to doctors and nurses. None of which appeal to him. Later, Waverly is there, his back turned, he hears him tell Solo to take a break. Get some rest. On the third time, it's dark and there's a hand in his. He stares at it for a while because the feel of it is so small, yet consuming in its warmth.

He almost fades again, but the hand gives his a squeeze, light and compulsive. His eyes trace up the arm and Gaby's head is resting on the bed, near to his. She looks tired, dark bags under her eyes. Her hair tussled. Her eyes are closed as she tries to sleep.

He thought he'd never see her again.

"Gaby," he tries, voice hoarse, lower and accent more prominent. Tongue thick on the syllables.

It draws her anyway. Those dark brown eyes open and focus on his face. It takes a second for her to realize that he's looking back and her and when she does, she sits up, immediately giving his hand a tighter squeeze. "Illya," she breathes his name and it soothes the residual pain weighing on his shoulders.

The moment of raw emotion is gone as she quirks her head to the side, a feigned smugness to her look, belied only by the tight grip she keeps on his hand. "I don't know why you didn't listen to me. I clearly remember telling you to stay" she said, knowing tone to her voice.

Illya smiled lightly. He moved his head, leaning towards her more and she looked a little shocked by the movement. By the show of intimacy and trust. But she adjusted his pillow, made sure he was comfortable, before her fingers brushed his hair away from his forehead. Soft against the marks they'd left on him.

"I make mistake," he told her.

Gaby's quiet, watching his eyelids get heavier. Her fingers still move lightly across his forehead. "A redo, then," she says quietly. He looks up at her, his vision waning at the pull of exhaustion that washes over him. She's safe. Solo's safe. He'd learned when to say no and when he should have said yes. She looks down at him, familiar words on her lips, of a scene in front of the hotel.

"You could stay," she whispers.

"Yes," he gives, strength behind the word because it's all he needs. It's all he has.

"I think I will stay."


End file.
